Who: Andyr + people plotted with When: All throughout October, maybe into November Where: Various, see thread headers What: Various, see thread headers Warnings: None as of yet, will warn in threads
[ Andyr comes zooming up to Val's bedside with a wheel chair out in front of him, one of his cozier looking frumpy hoodies laid over the back rest of it, which he scoops up and tosses directly into Val's face as means of hello. ]
Hurry up, while the Warden's busy.
[ the warden being alva, and busy being 'finally getting some sleep'. maybe it's cruel for andyr to be causing trouble when alva's getting some needed rest, but that's why he goes to the chart at the end of Val's med, while he lets the boy tug his sweater on and get situated into the chair. he scrawls a note on the bottom - "TOOK VAL TO THE AQUARIUM. WILL RUSH HIM BACK IF HE STARTS DYING. LOVE, ANDYR". that should be enough to earn forgiveness, right? right.
besides, he knows being in this bed sucks. alva hasn't been on their end of things often enough to get it completely, he thinks. but beds like this make you feel a more million times more ill than you actually are. time for Val to get out and have a break from it. ]
[ Val snatches the hoodie up from where it lands right on his face, shrugging out of the cloth gown and very carefully removing the small IV drip from his arm. It's methodical and careful, disposing of the sharp in the container mounted on the wall. He staunches the pinprick of blood with the edge of the gown for a moment until it stops before sliding effortlessly into the hoodie, which is perfect and warm and feels fantastic against the seams of where glass meets skin.
Alva's concerns are valid. They're so far from "home." Any lab that knows Valarie back and forth from his fluttering hearts to his minimalistic, stitched together digestive system and complicated renal facilities all meant to make room. But it's time for Alva to rest and he glances over to see Andyr scribbling something in his chart, grinning. ]
Good idea.
[ He manages pants on his own as well, finding his shoes tucked away into a drawer at the bed side and snatching up his pillow last minute. All the while he maneuvers with care from the bed to the wheelchair. He's strong enough to hold himself up, but the weight pulled from his insides makes him feel feather-light and strangely off-kilter the moment he's upright and breathing steadily.
Maybe he's not ready for totally walking on his own just yet, but that's fine. He settles into the chair clutching the pillow fast to his chest and and wiggling a little impatiently. ]
Andyr, you're no Shakespeare. [ he huffs ] Your love sonnet can't be that long.
[ Andyr lets out a snort, rolling his eyes as he's finishing his note, but obviously not that bothered by the teasing. after all, this is par for the course for them, if not slightly more gentle than 'i made a shank specifically to stab all of your organs with'. ]
Shut up, gimp. Alva's a delicate soul, I have to make sure he knows I don't care.
[ that is a lie, he loves the eff out of alva and everyone knows it, which is actually very frustrating, but such is life. signing off his 'LOVE, ANDYR', the chart is tossed like a frisbee onto the now empty bed, the pencil flung after it, and andyr's taking hold of the handles at the back of the wheelchair. ]
Okay, hold tight, here we go.
[ and he does go - speeding out of the medbay, swerving the chair around like it's a race car, making the 'zoom zoom' noises and all, maybe just to distress val, maybe because it's fun. either way, with these shenanigans in place, they make it to the aquarium room pretty speedy, and andyr slows down to wheel val up to one of the larger ones. ]
Check it out. We got everything set up and filled. Still moving some shit around, but there's all the fish.
[ It's fantastic to actually leave the medbay, speeding along without a single fuss. Andyr is making noises from behind him like he's some child, but frankly, he doesn't care, gripping the arms of the wheelchair and laughing a little, even if it aches just a bit. It's worth it, feeling the rush that makes his heart capable of full, heavy beats, flutter happily as they move down the halls. He understands that bedrest is the best for his body right now, but being cooped up for so long, too long, had started to really make him a little mad.
Now the aquarium room isn't what he expected (really, he expected smaller, who on earth would allow Andyr more than a fucking goldfish bowl...
He breathes out when the wheelchair slows, loosening his grip on the armrests to look up at the fish that have been situated. ] Where did you even get all these fish? Are they going to be okay up here? [ He scoots the wheelchair a bit closer, fingers on the spokes. ] Did you name them all? [ He turns his head towards him, a smile evident on his lips now. He's a little pale, a little tired looking, but obviously cheered up by the sight of the fish. ]
[ hearing Val laughing is a welcome sound, after the constant hum of machinery and the mechanical buzz of the ship around them. They didn’t really get any time to laugh back in the houses either, so it’s nice, for Val to get that here. Even if it won’t last. (Val doesn’t have to go back with them, does he? He can just stay here and stay safe)
Pacing slowly around the room, Andyr bends to rest his forearms on the handles at the back of the wheelchair, glancing up at the tanks from Val’s point of view. ]
They came in the mail, if you can freakin’ believe it. [ which sounds fucking ridiculous, but here they are. ] They’ll be fine. Got everything we need to take care of them along with the tanks, so as long as someone’s tending to it regularly, they’ll have no problems.
The mail, [ Val echoes in disbelief, eyes wide as he cranes his head forward, like it'll be that much more real. ] There's no way this many fish came to you in the post... [ Where did they even all come from? How did they get here intact? Val worries his lip a moment... they came here in pretty decent shape. Missing a few things sure (Val is still a bit salty about losing his undergarments--what the fuck) but in once piece, thankfully.
He turns his head around, body turning a little more slowly to accommodate the angle as he leans a bit to the side, Andyr's head ducked close now. ]
Really?
[ He holds his breath a moment before turning to look at the glass again, giving a quick nod. ]
Well, they did. They were all in bags with water and air, packaged up in boxes. [ it's hardly the weirdest thing to happen to them here, but val's right, it is pretty fucking weird. but it is what it is, and here they are, in their tanks, cruising around happily. ]
Really really. [ he tilts his chin some, smiling at him lopsidedly. ]
Pick some.
[ andyr slowly pushes at the chair, taking him around from tank to tank, letting him get a good look at them all. ]
[ the next time steve returns to his room, andyr's there waiting for him. not even making the pretense of hiding in the vents - just sitting in the desk chair, turned towards the door to his room, with a book laid open across his lap. there's something tense in his face, a conflict there that he's trying his best to swallow down, not immediately lifting his eyes when steve enters the room.
he can't take his eyes off the book - something so familiar to him, an object he's memorized more closely than anything he'd had in the house he once lived in, as a free human being. it's old - creaky and stained in places, worn at the edges of the cover, cracks down the spine from moments of helpless frustration when he'd thrown it across the room against a wall, torn pages taped back together in places. locked away in that room for six and a half years, from a teenager to whatever the fuck he is now, through torture and violation and mental breakdown after mental breakdown until he tore himself up enough that he could convince himself he could weather it. his messy handwriting is scrawled all through it - notes about what he'd read, about the facility. a map drawn over one of the pages. something like diary entries in the spaces and margins. a list of names of doctors, lab techs and guards, and their sins scrawled next to them. so he could remember what they'd done to him and how painful he should make their deaths. some scratched out, some with ever growing lists he'd never been able to get to. dates, birthdays, a list of KN2s and the number of iterations they've had, that he knows of. which ones they are now. memories from home, when they started to fade. his dad's name, his sister's name, their address, the people he used to know, the places he used to go. trying so hard to hold onto that dream of a life he'd had once. a page that's only the serial code "ANPR-BT-V-00" written over and over and over again, overlapping all the text and photos on the page, covering it completely. ]
Steve... [ he says finally - voice careful, as a hand smooths over a page. the issue is that this book is here. that steve has it. that nothing from his world should be here and he'd been relaxed into the knowledge that this ship couldn't possibly be linked to home. that nick and steve and bucky were pure coincidence. and yet, his book is here. and steve has it. ]
[ Avoiding people is more effort than it's worth, and frankly, more time consuming than he has time for. Still, he's managed it so far, what interactions he's had with people since they'd left that planet behind minimal and somewhat awkward. He hasn't talked about anything, hasn't brought it up in any capacity whatsoever, and maybe, somewhere long ago, he might have been okay with that. Now, though, in this present moment?
He doesn't think that's fair.
And yet, here he is sort of hesitating when he walks into his room and finds Andyr there, wondering if he should be alone with him like this. It's not as if they haven't been alone together since that night - or had it been months? - behind the waterfall, and Steve feels something sort of twist in his chest when he thinks about leaving him. Hadn't his first promise to him been about not hurting him? Whether it's physically or emotionally, it didn't matter. He just tries to swallow it and steps closer as if approaching a skittish creature he's worried would flee if he moved too fast. Whatever he says probably isn't going to help him forget how many nights he'd stayed up looking at those pages, reading the printed text and the handwritten scrawl, how he'd memorized some of the more important details of names and numbers, and how he'd never forget them. Steve doesn't know when he'd realized it'd been Andyr's book delivered to him by mistake, but he'd known. Somehow, he'd known, and he feels embarrassed that Andyr had caught him with it before he could return it to him. ]
It was in the mailbox outside the door. [ His answer is soft, stopping a few inches short of where he sits and so out of his depth that it's not so difficult to read in his body language. ] My name was on it. [ Speaking is a chore, and his teeth worry at his lip for a second or two before: ] Things can come through the Ingress like the people here. I would have given it to you.
[ As soon as he'd finished reading it for at least the fifth time. ]
Where's the packaging? [ Andyr's shooting out immediately, paranoia high, having a difficult time even seeing Steve as the Steve he knows and cares for at the moment. He wouldn't snap at him any other time, and hasn't since the first week he was here. His instincts are screaming at him not to trust just because he's fond, or just because Steve's been kind to him. They'd sent kind people to him before, to clean him up after a fight, or post-op, or something worse. Feign sympathy, wish there was something they could do. He'd learned they're never actually there to help, and after he started killing them (or trying to) one after another, they stopped trying. ] It's a book about fish printed in 3423 with 'Hapsburg' written at least ten times in it - when were you planning on giving it back to me?
[ another sharp snap, thick with suspicion, but his eyes finally lift to Steve, sees him looking ready to shake apart, and maybe he's grown too soft on this ship, but all of it bleeds out of him. he's being a hypocrite, he knows that. on his first day here, he dug through all of steve's stuff. the only reason he found this book at all was because he was snooping through steve's room. swallowing back against the emotion rising in him, andyr casts his eyes back down to the book in his lap, feeling ashamed. ]
Sorry.
[ a murmur, a dull fingernail scraping at the edge of the hard cover, the spot already worn down from the exact same nervous tick - six years worth of it. it's definitely his book. for a moment, he turns the pages, looking back over his scrawling, remembering some of what's written, mind blanking on others. his memory gets so spotty these days. ] You know, it's stupid, but this thing is all that keeps me sane some days. This stupid, old book.
[ Steve tries to shake his head and feels it all falling apart even as he does, almost bracing himself for the moment Andyr lunges out of the seat to take him to the ground. Maybe he should have suspected something like this might have happened, the suspicion and paranoia that accompanies people like them in a place as chaotic as the Moira. He still doesn't know as much as he'd like to about Andyr, what hes thinking when he's so quiet, but he's starting to understand, to grasp the fragility beneath all that fierce bravado. The few nights he'd spent reading that book has opened his perspective greatly, more than it had since he'd met him, and he takes another cautious step forward, inching himself closer to Andyr until he's standing next to the chair. It doesn't take much to kneel beside him, though he hesitates to reach out and grasp his hand. He curls his fingers against his thigh to resist the urge. ]
I'm sorry too. [ A frown pulls at his mouth. ] I should have given it to you when I found it in there.
[ But he'd been too curious for his own good, had wanted to know, and it's not as if Andyr would have ever considered Steve keeping something of his that had belonged to him when he'd been back in that terrible place. Perhaps he'll come to know one day just what it had been like for him, if something like this had ever happened to him to make him react this way, or maybe Steve will continue to make the smallest mistakes and mess up whatever it is that exists between them. Steve sighs, tilting his head to look at him and gauge exactly what he might be feeling. ] But that was then, right? Back home? You've got plenty of things to distract you here, and that's not gonna change as long as you stay. [ He breathes and finally reaches out to slide his hand over Andyr's, a careful touch in an effort to ease the way his nail digs into the book. ] You've got me too, Andyr.
No, it's okay. Don't worry about it. If it were me, I wouldn't have. [ Andyr's quick to correct the apology, and only partly sees steve moving closer, until he's right there, with a hand touching his. andyr's still for a long moment, eyes sliding from the pages over to the hand grasping his. his fingers twitch under steve's hand, not sure what he wants, or should, do, but feeling the need to move all the same. carefully, slowly, his thumb lifts to pass over the side of steve's palm, andyr swallowing dryly. ]
You know I'm going back, Steve. [ quiet, with something weaker than andyr would like it to be in his voice, and he's not sure if he's saying it in response to 'but that was then' or 'you've got me too'. and yet, he isn't letting go of his hand, and hasn't moved his eyes from it. he means more than that, but can't manage to get it past his lips, doesn't know how to form the words for it, where to even start. instead, his eyes slip to the book again, skimming over what he'd written on this particular page. lifting a finger from his free hand, he taps lightly at a crossed out name. ]
This one. He's the one that buckled the straps in, the day they were putting third degree burns and acid on my skin, to see how fast I'd heal. [ andyr swallows, knowing it isn't just self-defense he does. it isn't justice either. it's beyond revenge - it's sick. it's sick, and god, he doesn't fucking care. ] So, next time he had guard detail, I waited 'til we were close to the mess hall, slipped my cuffs, dragged him into the kitchen, and put his face on a lit up burner. Held him there 'til he stopped moving.
[ he speaks in a distant sort of tone, unaffected. not cold, not heated, not anything. just blank, and moves to tap another name - female. ] This one was a lab tech. Put a syringe into my eye once, who fucking knows why. I cut her eyes out with a scalpel - both of 'em, lids and all. Not sure if she actually died or not - someone knocked me out before I could finish. Either way, she's not working in the labs anymore.
[ he's not sure what he means by telling him this. maybe that steve doesn't understand the depth of it. that andyr can't stop carrying it with him, no matter how far away he is for how long. that maybe he doesn't want to stop. that maybe this is all he clings to anymore, and the book illustrates that - more than half what's written in here in some way related to his crusade. ] This one... said something I didn't like. I ripped the lower half of his jaw off.
[ He doesn't want to accept the correction, but all he does is stay silent, letting his own eyes fall to watch the way Andyr's thumb brushes along his palm and feeling it more than he can actually see it. This isn't the sort of conversation he's expecting to have, though it should have been obvious considering half the things written in that book, and Steve's expression falls the longer Andyr talks, trying to imagine it and hating the idea of it being done in the first place. Not to those people who are dead because someone put in a position of power like that should never abuse it, even when they're told, but to Andyr, to this person so deep and complex, sweet and gentle. Anger might drive him, but that hadn't always been him; he's sure of it. He's seen enough of it, and Steve hates how mad it makes him to have not been there, to consider the circumstances and how Andyr is going to slip through his fingers and turn up on the wrong side of hell without him there to do something. There's no possible way he could save him from what might be waiting for him back home, but he wants to.
That sort of helplessness doesn't sit well in him, makes him nauseous, and his fingers are curling over Andyr's almost possessively with each word. Finality, a memory. He's squeezing his hand so hard by the time he's done that he has to put conscious effort into not breaking his fingers. In a way, Steve blames himself for those stories, those people and what they'd done, and there's no possible way he could have ever known or ever put a stop to it.
Maybe that's the worst part. ]
Hey. [ His voice is thick with all the emotion he feels gathering in his chest, reaching out with his other hand to slowly pull the book from his lap. ] Wherever we end up, it's important to remember that's our choice. What they did to you - [ And his lips press thin, gaze narrowed on the slow tug of those heavy pages like he's trying to find a way to piece together Andyr's heart. ] - that was theirs, and they paid for it.
I mean, it probably wasn't the best way to handle it, but you did what you had to do. [ Something in his voice catches then as the book hits the floor, stuck between a soft teasing and the burn at the back of his throat that says I get it. How much blood is on his own hands anyway? The things he's done and the people who have suffered because of it— sometimes, doing the best thing isn't always the easiest, and even if there's hardly any comparison to what Andyr has suffered, it's not so difficult to imagine anymore. ] All of us do what we have to, even if it means giving up a little bit of ourselves along the way. But you have to think about what you've got here too. You've got friends. You've got-- [ Alva. As if Steve really understands what that means, so he doesn't let himself say it. ]
You have a lot of good choices here. Sometimes, it's not so bad living in the moment.
[ His mouth quirks at the corner, a sad smile that eases into something far too soft when he finally tilts his head up to look at Andyr. There's more he could say, probably. He knows about clinging to a past that he can never escape, one that continues to haunt him and always would, and even if it had been a better time, the world moves on. The universe moves on, and all they can do is-- ] We just have to make the best of it while we can.
[ Steve's hand is crushing against his, and Andyr registers it somewhat distantly. It doesn't hurt - takes much more than that to really start to be painful for Andyr (like acid poured over his skin, like needles pressed into his eyes). even if the bones broke, andyr's not sure he'd do much beyond grunt, with where his head is now, feeling numbed all throughout. he's expecting steve to pull away soon. that the grip on his hand is more trying to process the violence he's gladly done than feeling so strongly empathetic to what he'd done it for. no one does that - flinches and grimaces, maybe. gets uncomfortable, certainly. gets as angry as if it'd been then in the same position? no. no one does that for him, no one ever has.
he watches the book slip from his lap with a cold kind of curiosity, watching steve's hand at the edge of the pages and remembering how it'd felt on his bare skin. how much of that had been anything real? andyr watches it slide from his lap and hit the floor, steve's words ringing in his ears - choice, doing what you have to do, and losing a little bit of ourselves. a little bit, and a jerk of a rueful smile pulls the corner of his lips up. a little bit. the person he is now is unrecognizable from the person he used to be. for better or worse, so much of him is simply gone now, replaced with things tht don't fit, that can't understand the world the same as he did before, that can't look at people and see anything but what harm they could be, given the chance. so startled by anything gentle he hardly knows how to handle it, and that brings his eyes slipping back to the hand covering his, and how andyr's yet to let go, thumb still resting over the side of steve's palm. so curious a thing. ]
That what you're doing? [ he asks, finally, lifting his eyes to steve's, and immediately finding himself distracted with the earnestness in his eyes, written all over his face. like he's desperate to do something, and it hinges on andyr well-being to give him some validation in it. ] Living in the moment.
[ there's a sort of daze around him, andyr's eyes searching steve's features - the rise of his cheekbones, the shape of his eyes, the curve of his lips, and the memory of where all those lips have been. he'd told him, once, when they had this conversation before, that there's things here that he'd lost back home. that he'll have to lose them again when they leave. and yet, he still stands tall and strong, yet stoic. the island had been the most free with himself andyr's ever seen the man. all that they'd let go of there, and yet, here they are, afraid to so much as breathe a word of it, worse for what they've known and can't have back. ]
Think we tried that already. [ a quiet, almost imperceptible whisper. barely there, and that's as much as it'll ever be, coming from andyr. ]
[ Maybe the same could be said of him, that the differences in the person he is would make the person he used to be balk at the very idea this is what he becomes, but he tries to bury it with everything else, shifting a little on his knee so that he's balanced on both and looking at him head-on. Worse things have brought him here, bowed low like this, but for Andyr, he does it willingly and freely. It's the simple connection of wanting and knowing and thinking about what he could have if he gave some effort, and that's why he doesn't let go, why he feels the heat crawling into his face at the vague mention of what had happened between them on that island behind the waterfall. Honesty has never been so difficult to hide, though Steve is shaking his head at the question even as his other hand settles gently on Andyr's thigh. He wonders if the connection helps. If any of it helps.
His eyes fall to Andyr's mouth before he forces them up again. ] For the first time in my life, I think I'm finally starting to live for myself. [ Even if it's still about others, he's slowly beginning to figure out what makes him happy, what makes it easy to get out of bed every day and follow the same routine over and over again, and it hadn't been a simple conclusion. It's years of loss and depression, nightmares and blame, and Steve is no saint. He could never ask what Andyr sees in him. He could never ask anyone to explain it. ] And what happened between us... It's not just a moment for me.
[ It could have been, he thinks. The heat of it and the knowledge of it some fleeting dream like the rest of the ship and everyone else on it. It could have been a memory forgotten with time, the familiar faces that still surface in the dark when he thinks he's asleep, but he's clinging to it far harder than he'd realized. He doesn't want to let it go unless it's something Andyr wants him to do, and even then, he doesn't know if he could do it. ]
I think about it a lot more than I should, and I just-- I don't know. I've never done this before. [ Andy should know exactly what he means, though Steve couldn't elaborate any further even if he wanted to. It's embarrassing and wistful and real. He'd never felt so torn either, biting at his lip and staring at their hands and how easy it would be to push their fingers together or stand and pull him into a testing sort of embrace, something that would show him that he isn't alone and that he wouldn't have to be ever again. He's frowning, and Steve bows his head a little, the words slipping out of his mouth before he can swallow them down. ] I'm sorry.
[ Maybe he's just making too much out of nothing by bringing it up. ]
[ there's something so surreal about this - a man like steve rogers kneeling in front of him, telling him he'd been thinking about him, discussing a time they'd gotten into an escalation of physicality, like they're any other set of normal people. things like this - affection, fondness, something meaning more than a quickly stolen moment for release, and the actual possibility of it becoming something, rather than just being another body to harm for leverage on him... his head's spinning, but steve says that word he seems so fond of again - "sorry". he's reaching to grab at the wrist attached to the hand resting on his thigh before he thinks of what he's doing. ]
Hey. Stop being sorry. [ a moment of quiet, and andyr glances down to the hand he'd just put on steve, blinking, before easing it back some, to just rest on his leg, a bit higher up that steve's palm is. ] You're not doing anything wrong.
[ there was a certain freedom in not having to justify himself, what he did or said or thought. not having to adhere to what was right or what was wrong, what would hurt people or what would hurt him. what was good for him or his health or his mental state was irrelevant - because no one fucking cared, and the people who might, didn't get a say in it. he didn't have to be logical or rational or make sense, because no one gave a shit what he was - just the template that's mentally cracked, but still profitable. any now, there's this. talks about living in the moment, and what a tangling of bodies means to him, and god, the last time he ever assigned meaning to it, or even spoke about it or acknowledged it past quick trysts in dark corners and hallway closets, was ages ago for him. his mind is all steel edges, shattered glass and violence, and everything on this ship is asking it to be human flesh again. ]
It-- I don't know. [ he starts, careful and with clear difficulty, like starting up a machine that's been collecting dust for ages. tentatively, his hand on his leg inches forward some, just barely gripping at the end of one of steve's fingertips ] I don't know what it was, for me.
[ Had it gone so far because of simple attraction and hormonal desire, had it been because he'd felt wanted and cared for and Andyr's starving for both of those, had it been because it was Steve wanting him, and even then, had it been simply because Steve is special to him, or because he's more. It'd taken Andyr six years to even start to admit that his feelings for Alva were more than friendly affection, and even still, it's twisted all up in what the man represents to him, what support he's been, and what Andyr envies or admires of him. Steve he's known for all of a few months, and he hardly understands who or what he is, let alone what he is to him. He's still such a quandary to him, and it's been a long time since Andyr was willing to take time on anything more complicated than 'kill' or 'ignore'. ]
You're different, and... it felt good. Really good. [ He doesn't mean for the fact they got off (though that was nice too), and Steve ought to know that in how his head ducks, and his lips press together, hand tugging a bit at steve's fingertip, before he shakes his head. ] That's all I know.
[ Steve doesn't think he can give Andyr a clear answer as to what it had been for him either, not without really considering every angle, all those choices he says they have the right to make, and he can't offer that without some sort of complication that simply isn't fair to him. Andyr touches him, just a careful little thing at his fingertip, and his heart's already in his throat, the words stilled by the way he breathes and tries to figure out what to do next. Plans are usually so easy, paths that wind to a finish and one that he only deviates from if there's a better outcome, but this is on a completely different scale than something he could just throw away and come back to it whenever he wanted. This is emotion and some strange desperation to chase after all the potential and sweetness he sees in Andyr—a kindred affection he thinks he would die for before questioning it.
Because before that, before the moment in question and all the thoughts it stirs in him, he wants to believe they're friends. Friends are honest and always there, what he's tried to be for Andyr since they'd met, and he can't lose that when it's sitting right in front of him and reaching out to him. He'd only had one real love in his life, besides Bucky, now that hea given thought to that too, and it had been far too late to do something about it when he'd realized, when he'd known. Steve's older now, more aware of his feelings and what they could mean, why it's like reaching into his chest and ripping his heart into pieces. He feels too strongly, too stubbornly, and if they can't reach some common ground, it's going to tear at his seams until he bursts apart with it. That's why returns the touch, mimicking the way he's gently pulling at Andyr's finger by doing the same to his, and he hesitates there, ignoring the book when he bumps it with his knee and edges it further beneath the chair Andyr's sitting in. ]
It's okay. [ He says it carefully, almost tentative. ] You don't have to know any of that now. Maybe we'll never figure it out, but I don't wanna give up trying. [ What would they have from each other if they did? He can't lie to him and say he doesn't think about it when he's already said as much, when he finds the quiet hours of the night filled with Andyr's smile or the stories he's told him or the written words he'd read with all the fish facts, and he's so full with it that it feels... It feels likes it's almost too much.
And he'll run or shut down before it overloads him, which is why he's drawing back to push himself onto his feet and why the hand resting beneath Andyr's is gently resting against his shoulder before sliding to touch his hair. An easy pressure, comforting and safe. Steve finds himself wanting to trace the line of his jaw with his thumb, and that certainly can't just be some lingering effects of that island. ] If that's something you want to do with me.
[ He doesn't know what he's saying or what it sounds like, but it's out between them without hesitation, a pull to get Andyr to look at him. His finger brushes at the edge of his ear. ] You don't have to answer that right now.
[ there's a reflexive smile that tugs across andyr's features, as he watches steve mimick his awkward little finger tug - finding it cute, funny, amusing. he isn't used to reining in these little reactions he gives, just blares everything for all to see, as it's usually just rage and violence. but this, this is something sweet, something soft. something human in just simple connection. what steve's offering, asking for, is just that - simple, human connection.
this is living, this is what he'd been missing and wanting to remember for years. wanting to just feel a glimmer of again, and yet, now that there's the chance, christ, he's fucking terrified of it.
andyr knows what he's like. he'd sacrifice any person in his path if it meant getting just a little closer to that end goal - whatever it is now. freedom he hardly really hopes for anymore (his best kept secret), perhaps revenge? maybe oblivion? whatever wayward whim happens to be the elixir he's surviving on for the moment (and being out of hapsburg, here, doesn't seem to have lessened that need of something to keep him going), like hopping from one stepping stone to the next, trying to make your way across a pond. it sickens him that he might actually be anything but beyond pleased to be free, but the calm in this place drives him more mad than his cell did some days, he thinks, and the thought of putting steve in the way of that fills him with dread. the thought that he might do it without even meaning to - that he already has, three times now, before. ]
I can't promise anything. [ andyr answers, eventually, voice a small croak as he looking up to Steve, mind feeling lulled and sluggish with the careful touch to his hair, wanting to sink into it. stop that, he's trying to think. reaching up, andyr grips steve's thumb, and tugs his hand down, turning it palm up to rest in the cradle of his hands, a thumb tracing one of the lines. ] I could be gone tomorrow.
[ he means that in so many more ways that just 'i'll no longer be here and you'll be on your own'. he knows he's going back, he's told steve already that he can't afford to become comfortable with a life as easy as this, and be dropped right back into the hell of hapsburg to be completely blindsided and unprepared by it. he can't change things about himself - he doesn't even know how to. and steve knows just what world he's returning to, and he'll have to be settled with not following him, should the Ingress simply snatch him away overnight. ]
It'll hurt. No matter what way it goes. [ because Andyr doesn't understand how to do this, because Andyr already knows he won't make allowances for Steve in what cruelty and coldness he already carries in him. Because one day, they'll be gone, one way or another. Because everything Andyr's ever had close to his heart has been ripped away, and even if he has the choice to keep Steve, whether as a dear friend or something more, it will always be second to what he has to do back home. Who he has to be to do it.
and yet, none of this is 'no'. because god, as much as he knows it'll ruin him, ruin steve, ruin everything, he's too fucking selfish, and too goddamn weak, to just cut it off. ]
[ He doesn't want exceptions made for him, not when it comes to things like this. If he has to, Steve will make them for himself, but for now, he just wants whatever simplicity comes from them being together. However that might be. Each little moment twists deep in a place he hasn't quite made the time to decipher, and he gathers them close, holding them the way Andyr holds his hand. Careful touches and difficult conversation—he's not new to them. His life is made of it, of secrets too complex to ever confess the entire truth, and he should feel guilty for even asking something like this of Andyr. Of himself. It's not a promise he can really keep either, for several reasons, and yet, it doesn't mean he isn't going to exude the effort to try. Maybe that's why he turns his hand over to grip his and give it a squeeze. ]
I know. [ His voice is surprisingly even with those few syllables. He should stop this right now because false hope, no matter how fleeting, is the worst way to hurt a person, and that would destroy the very first thing he'd ever told him. It would destroy them. ] I'd never ask you for anything like that, Andyr, and I wasn't expecting a promise. Thinking about is enough. [ For now, at least.
Steve still has to do that too, but at least he knows it isn't something he's going to ignore like everything else he's been avoiding. And he gives him a smile then, something fond and gentle and short-lived. This is a choice he's making, and Steve will live with whatever consequences come from that, if they're separated by the pull of time and space or something far more terrible. That someone like this could exist in a place without him is a strange thought to entertain, does something even worse to his heart the longer he considers it, and Steve looks away from him. He watches the pages of that book and can't stand the cold apprehension that comes with it, with knowing he would go back to such an existence and memories of something better. ]
If you want the book, you can take it. [ Said after several seconds of silence, though he doesn't offer another smile like he normally would. Nothing is happy about that, about the outcome that waits for them wherever the end might be. The moment is set, but the future isn't. He isn't sure he can give that up when the time comes. ] Or I can keep it for you.
[ looking down at steve's hand clasped over his, he thinks of how strange it looks. just the other day, he'd been tearing men apart with those hands. there might even be dried blood still caught under his fingernails. thinking of it, how he'd seen the slaved shoved into the ring with him, and snapped, his fingers twitch, wanting to grip harder. squeeze until something cracks, because it feels good. because any other time someone touched him this softly or sweetly, it's exactly what he would've done to them, back home. but that hand's attached to steve, and fuck, does he even remember how to be like this? ]
Okay. [ it's small, and uncertain, and though it's not actually agreeing to much, it feels like more. this is a bad idea, he keeps chanting in the back of his head. he'll hate himself for this later, he thinks. but he's wanted so long to just be able to feel something again. to laugh, to smile, to connect to someone. to want and feel wanted - something more than just this sick urge to rend and destroy. just to know he still can - that he didn't completely burn that out of himself. that hapsburg didn't. andyr takes a shaky breath, and eventually nods, swallowing around the lump in his throat. ] Yeah. Okay.
[ his eyes glance down towards the book at his feet, andyr staring for a moment, before his hands pull from steve's to reach for it. standing slowly, he turns through the pages, not really reading anything, just looking it over, considering, before he closes the cover, and traces his fingertips over the embossed lettering, a frown on his lips. ]
You hold onto it. I already know everything in it, and besides, I gotta read all the alien fish books now, so. [ Gently, he pushes the old, cracked and frayed book against steve's chest, like it's something delicate he's apprehensively entrusting him with. And really, it is. If nothing else or no one else could give an accurate picture of the shredded mess of a being he is now, that book, and all that's scrawled into the pages, is it. He's not sure what he's wanting from Steve having it - whether he wants to be understood, or he wants it to sink in that Andyr isn't a good person, and he should be running. But either way, there it is. The archive of the slow and violent crumbling of Andyr Prince. ] 'Til I need it again.
[ For some reason, he feels relieved at that simple okay, and so much tension drains from him that it's noticeable in the way he's standing when Andyr pushes the book against his chest, how his hands come up to clutch at it. Steve thinks it's an opening in trust, more than the fleeting heat of a moment stolen without the effort of this—the conversation, the clear lines of what they are and what they do. Maybe he hopes to prove that there's nothing wrong with wanting to have something when you've gone so long without, that it's easier to feel like a person than he thinks, but he can't be sure. He's never done anything to this degree, but he's never half in. It's one-hundred percent or nothing, and he's determined to show that to Andyr in all of the ways he has been since he'd given him that first drawing. He sweeps his thumb over the almost familiar cover and looks back at him. ]
I'll take care of it. [ His smile is wider now, less weighted and more carefree, and there's a slight pause before he's stepping back in the direction of his dresser. ] Hang on. [ Steve sets the book atop it, pulling one of the drawers open to take out the sketchbook Andyr's probably more than familiar with by now. He flips it open and gently tugs out a page, placing the pad atop Andyr's fish book before walking over to him. ] I was gonna give this to you later, but since you're here... Kingfish.
[ More like a king mackerel, but details. At least the shape of the fish is accurate. If he ignores the crown sitting a bit crookedly on its head. The sketch is a bit lighter than some of the others Steve has given him, less finalized like he'd been in the process of finishing it. ] I get bored reading about 'em sometimes. [ Like he has to explain the drawing, though there's nothing that says why they're always of fish or why he gives them to Andyr.
[ Curiously, Andyr’s chin tilts up as he watches steve flip through the sketchpad, as if he could look over the cover of it, but soon enough, Steve’s handing over the sketch, and Andyr holds it for just an instant before letting out a full, deep laugh. ]
Aw sweet, King Mackerel! [ Steve’s done a good enough job that Andyr can tell what it is, not to mention ‘Kingfish’ being the unofficial name of the fish there, pretty sure his book had detailed that as well. The crown is perfectly appropriate, and a grin pulls across Andyr’s face - the first he’s worn since this talk started. ] High Lord of the the Gulf and most of the Atlantic.
[ Lightly, his fingertips trace the lines fondly, before glancing back up to steve. ]
Thanks. [ said quietly, but sincere. He loves getting these from him, but he’ll likely never say just how much. ] What’s his name, though? He can’t just be ‘King’.
Mostly because Val has managed to coerce Andyr to ease up on the hysterics for now, though he's justifiable, perhaps, in his frantically colliding trains of thought. Val is fairly sure he wouldn't know what to do, all kinds of images of himself running about as they do for Andyr and Alva themselves. And it isn't just that.
It's the notion of this place, pulling here and there as it sees fit, no regard for much else in the way of time and memory and people and the fact that looking at an image of yourself that isn't at all like yourself...
It doesn't something to people like Andyr. Too many things.
The beds in their rooms swing, so Val takes advantage of this, of the slow sway of the bed against the hum of the ship and the dim lighting. How they get there is a combination of Valarie feigning exhaustion and the quiet of the ship indicating that most have begun to turn in for the "night", the furious pleas he makes with their hands tightly fastened together as he begins to pull him towards their deck, but not towards Andyr's own room, nor towards the Aquarium with it's hard floor and tent. A bed will do. A real bed, Andyr, not some half-way nest for vagrants that are obsessed with fish (maybe another night).
He's yet to return Andyr's stupid pull over (and he has no intention of it unless Andyr makes a big stink about it. The bed itself is a nest as well--blankets and pillows, books and more books and it's a wonder that Val doesn't end up stabbed in all kinds of places or covered in a plethora of paper cuts. He moves thinks around, makes room, tidies in a way he's not sure he quite remembers how with a private sort of glee until he's made a decent-sized Andyr-shaped space on the other side of his bed before clambering on himself.
The world is definitely ending, but he wouldn't know, he's not on their world anymore, neither of them is. But it's coming to some kind of a head, some kind of a truce, where Andyr after much more coaxing, lays down, body still tense as a piano wire pulled tight and Valarie is half afraid to rest fingers on him, lest he let out some kind of cacophonous noise like a piano crashed about on with clumsy fists. Never the less, his fingers rest with caution in the tousled mess of his hair, a pillow resting against the glass of his breast as he flicks through a book he's plucked up from the ground.
Valarie loses track of the seconds, the minutes, of blessed quiet, of shifting and huffing about, of the dim corners of the room creeping in until finally he gives a gentle prod to Andyr's cheek, hardly thinking anything of the notion of the act.
Maybe he can bore him to sleep with what he's reading or something. ]
[ seventy-two hours is the point of sleep deprivation that most start to hallucinate.
it's been about seventy-nine and andyr could swear he just saw the ceiling tiles ripple.
this is bad - he knows this is bad and he knows everyone who's been able to keep enough tabs on him to tell he hasn't actually slept since the whole second bucky incident knows this is bad. (how many, actually, would that be? alva? val? was nick watching him? can cassie see it? where's rogers been and why hasn't he spotted him around as much as he has? bucky v1 too? christ)
he needs to get some goddamn sleep, but he thinks, even if he wanted to (which he doesn't - how's he supposed to figure out anything if all he has to do is go unconscious for an hour for someone to extract what's needed from him - or even two minutes, for someone to get close enough for a sedative), any time his eyelids start to get heavy, he feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle, the chill of the ports grotesquely fused to his body, phantom eyes of security cameras and the hum of machinery in the walls. fear screams through him like some kind of unholy spirit's wail, and he's wide awake again.
lying down was a bad idea, but val wouldn't stop pestering. he and alva brought him here, it's andyr's responsibility to be looking after him, especially now, when it feels like everything's closing in, a noose tightening around their throats, but god, he wishes val would just understand that he can't. but his body is so worn, and the bed is so soft, and the hand on his hair reminds him of years ago, memories like a lighthouse swallowed up in fog - quilts on the ratty couch in their tiny living room, chicken noodle soup, and his dad's hand seeming so big when he'd been so young. he swallows, dry, and hears val talking somewhere above him. god, he's so tired. ]
Sure. Whatever. [ do whatever you want, val, he doesn't care. and yet, as his eyes start to fall closed again, and that same screeching fear echos inside his skull, a hand snaps up, grabbing val's thin wrist. ]
Do not fall asleep. Don't leave the room, okay? [ there's something pleading in his voice, desperate. ] Promise me.
[ The hand that grabs his wrist isn't a surprise. Andyr, wound up like a spring trap finally does spring, and Val doesn't flinch, doesn't move save to turn his head and look at him quietly.
For a flash of a moment, Andyr, who always seems so larger than life, who fills a room with enmity or rage or rambunctiousness... feels so small. Looks so small. It's unnerving, concerning even, and Val makes more the effort to press closer to him, as if maybe there's some sort of safety in that alone. ]
I'm not tired, alright? [ He leans in carefully, almost conspiratorial in how low his voice is. ] You're safe. I'm won't go anywhere... promise.
[ Not always, not forever, it has an ending, just undefined. An hour, a day, a week, who knows. He doesn't pull his wrist back, just lays against the pillows propping him up once more, adjusting the book in his hand. There's a soft mewl that comes from the end of the bed, a weight suddenly pouncing up on the end of it and barely causing the bed itself to stir back and forth. Petra picks her way gently through the sheets and makes herself comfortable somewhere between the two of them. She seems fairly unconcerned with the new addition to the bed.
Val smooths a hand over the page slowly, just as he slowly works his wrist free of Andyr's grip and settles it again, this time on his shoulder. It's the barest touch, enough to tell him he's there, enough to show him that he isn't going anywhere as he reads him a fairly short poem. ] I am the master of my fate, [ he says, fingers squeezing softly over the line of Andyr's shoulder ] I am the captain of my soul.
[ everything in andyr's body and mind are pulling him towards sleep, even through the spikes of fear that snap his eyes open again. for a moment, it feels like being back on one of the lab beds, post-op, with tubes running all over him, IVs here and there, and morphine pumped into his system, making him dizzy. much as he hated being drugged into oblivion, he'd always see Jehanne sitting next to the bed, waiting, guarding.
even knowing who and what she is now, all that she's done, something about it always seemed somewhat soothing, as his body gradually healed, aching all over, worn to the bone. he ought to feel sick for idealizing something like that, as if any part of the Houses could've brought any kind of solace, but it's true in a way he's too tired to try denying right now. andyr's hand reaches up for the one over his shoulder, bony fingers slightly winding in Val's, perhaps just for the reminder that he's there. his eyes blink closed, listening to the poem as val reads it, letting the gentle quality of his voice wash over him.
the words ring in his ears, and he sees why val thought he'd like it. he does, despite what feels untrue in comparison to him, to them. it's what he'd like to be, the dream he'd like to hold on to, if he still had the hope in him for it. ]
Master of my fate. [ andyr smiles, soft, words weary and sleepy. ] Nice if it were true, huh?
[ what he's been doing lately, it hasn't been out of defiance. just fear. but the idea's always been more important than the reality, at least as far as andyr's been concerned. it doesn't matter what he actually believes - just that val and posie and mikal and alva see him doing it, see him acting like he believes it. something about the poem brings a peace to him, in that thought, and he curls up, settling into the next of blankets and pillows. ]
I like it.
this gonna be like that always sunny ep where they hide an entire pizza in the air vents
[you're crawling alone in the vents....your phone is out (because you have your MID), and your car is...of no consequence. When out of the corner of your eye, you see him...
Badou Nails!
He's smoking about 30 feet ahead, peeking through one of the grates below you into a scene....well, you'd only know if you get a little closer. Shall you?]
[ he’s down on all fours and breaks out in a sprint (or he would, if anyone could sprint in the vent shafts). He’s gaining on you. andyr prince.
Pissy vent lord of the moira, because he’s following that scent of cigarette smoke, and when he turns a corner to spot the carrot topped weirdo clogging up his ventilation systems with lung cancer, he shouts out, unconcerned with who do may or may not disturb on the other end of the grates. ]
Hey, douche! Don’t smoke in the fucking vents! What are you, stupid?
[ what the fuck is this dude even screeching about.
who cares, he's probably high as balls. ]
THEN GET THE FUCK OUTTA MY VENTS, ASSHAT! IT'S ONLY ALIEN JUNK AND MPREG UP HERE. [ which actually seems like a good slogan to keep people out of here, maybe he'll post it up somewhere. ]
WHAT KIND OF FUCKED UP DICK DO YOU HAVE THAT YOU SHIT OUT OF IT, YOU NEED PROFESSIONAL HELP FOR ISSUES LIKE THAT.
[ whoever is in the hallways below whatever vent tunnels they're crawling/vaulting/running/scrambling through is going to be having a very strange day. but fuck them, they should mind their own business, this is official moira sanitation shit right here.
and andyr's throwing a dirty dust rag at carrot top up ahead. because it just seems like the considerate thing to do. ]
I HOPE YOU AIN'T OFFERING BECAUSE I WOULDN'T PAY YOU TO DO A MANICURE LET ALONE CLEAN THE HOOD OF MY DICK!
[with another squawk he grabs the rag off his head and tosses it somewhere behind him, no, not aiming for Andyr here-- that'll come in the form of whatever junk he can get ahold of in their path.
Has anyone been cleaning up here? What is happening]
[ look, he's been sort of cleaning, okay. he moves any corpses out of the vents he comes across, scrubbed away all the glass from the freaky glass people attack, and every now and again, he dusts some random spot while spying on people below the grates. so it's... passingly sort of bare minimum clean. whatever. ]
PUT YOUR DICK ANYWHERE NEAR MY HANDS AND IT'S GETTING CAUGHT OFF, DUMBSHIT!
[ vaulting off the wall of the last corner they'd rounded, andyr stretches out a hand and reaches to grab at one of badou's ankles, hoping to snag this weirdo invader. ]
[ this guy has to have some kind of mental damage. There’s no other explanation. He’s just wrong in the head.
Like reeling in someone with a rope, he’s dragging badou back towards him, strength enhanced from most humans, so he’s expecting that to be fairly easy. What he’s doing with him once he gets a proper hold on him, he’s not sure, but it’ll eventually involved being punted the fuck out of the vents. ]
That doesn’t even make sense. [ why would you eat dicks to keep doctors away?? Literally has nothing to do with why doctors creep on you. ]
And it is my business, because these are my fucking vents, dipshit. I work here.
[ you are a gross mess, badou nails, and andyr is half considering letting him go just to not have to touch this disaster of a human being anymore, but he also doesn't want him getting his gross booger face all over the vents. ]
Well, you're fired! You don't get lawyers in space, just airlocked.
Like God would wanna be associated with your crazy ass anyway!
[ struggle struggle, he's a meta-human, bro, you ain't going nowhere until he loosens up his grip. ]
We got that to agree on, at least. Did they seriously assign you to work in the vents? [ please say you're just being full of shit, please. you're in his safe space, badou. ]
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VAL; sleeping with the fishes hurr hurr hurr
Hurry up, while the Warden's busy.
[ the warden being alva, and busy being 'finally getting some sleep'. maybe it's cruel for andyr to be causing trouble when alva's getting some needed rest, but that's why he goes to the chart at the end of Val's med, while he lets the boy tug his sweater on and get situated into the chair. he scrawls a note on the bottom - "TOOK VAL TO THE AQUARIUM. WILL RUSH HIM BACK IF HE STARTS DYING. LOVE, ANDYR". that should be enough to earn forgiveness, right? right.
besides, he knows being in this bed sucks. alva hasn't been on their end of things often enough to get it completely, he thinks. but beds like this make you feel a more million times more ill than you actually are. time for Val to get out and have a break from it. ]
Don't forget the pillow.
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Alva's concerns are valid. They're so far from "home." Any lab that knows Valarie back and forth from his fluttering hearts to his minimalistic, stitched together digestive system and complicated renal facilities all meant to make room. But it's time for Alva to rest and he glances over to see Andyr scribbling something in his chart, grinning. ]
Good idea.
[ He manages pants on his own as well, finding his shoes tucked away into a drawer at the bed side and snatching up his pillow last minute. All the while he maneuvers with care from the bed to the wheelchair. He's strong enough to hold himself up, but the weight pulled from his insides makes him feel feather-light and strangely off-kilter the moment he's upright and breathing steadily.
Maybe he's not ready for totally walking on his own just yet, but that's fine. He settles into the chair clutching the pillow fast to his chest and and wiggling a little impatiently. ]
Andyr, you're no Shakespeare. [ he huffs ] Your love sonnet can't be that long.
[ F I S H ]
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Shut up, gimp. Alva's a delicate soul, I have to make sure he knows I don't care.
[ that is a lie, he loves the eff out of alva and everyone knows it, which is actually very frustrating, but such is life. signing off his 'LOVE, ANDYR', the chart is tossed like a frisbee onto the now empty bed, the pencil flung after it, and andyr's taking hold of the handles at the back of the wheelchair. ]
Okay, hold tight, here we go.
[ and he does go - speeding out of the medbay, swerving the chair around like it's a race car, making the 'zoom zoom' noises and all, maybe just to distress val, maybe because it's fun. either way, with these shenanigans in place, they make it to the aquarium room pretty speedy, and andyr slows down to wheel val up to one of the larger ones. ]
Check it out. We got everything set up and filled. Still moving some shit around, but there's all the fish.
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Now the aquarium room isn't what he expected (really, he expected smaller, who on earth would allow Andyr more than a fucking goldfish bowl...
He breathes out when the wheelchair slows, loosening his grip on the armrests to look up at the fish that have been situated. ] Where did you even get all these fish? Are they going to be okay up here? [ He scoots the wheelchair a bit closer, fingers on the spokes. ] Did you name them all? [ He turns his head towards him, a smile evident on his lips now. He's a little pale, a little tired looking, but obviously cheered up by the sight of the fish. ]
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Pacing slowly around the room, Andyr bends to rest his forearms on the handles at the back of the wheelchair, glancing up at the tanks from Val’s point of view. ]
They came in the mail, if you can freakin’ believe it. [ which sounds fucking ridiculous, but here they are. ] They’ll be fine. Got everything we need to take care of them along with the tanks, so as long as someone’s tending to it regularly, they’ll have no problems.
Haven’t named them yet, though, no. You want to?
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He turns his head around, body turning a little more slowly to accommodate the angle as he leans a bit to the side, Andyr's head ducked close now. ]
Really?
[ He holds his breath a moment before turning to look at the glass again, giving a quick nod. ]
A couple. Yeah.
no subject
Really really. [ he tilts his chin some, smiling at him lopsidedly. ]
Pick some.
[ andyr slowly pushes at the chair, taking him around from tank to tank, letting him get a good look at them all. ]
STEVE; fish books
he can't take his eyes off the book - something so familiar to him, an object he's memorized more closely than anything he'd had in the house he once lived in, as a free human being. it's old - creaky and stained in places, worn at the edges of the cover, cracks down the spine from moments of helpless frustration when he'd thrown it across the room against a wall, torn pages taped back together in places. locked away in that room for six and a half years, from a teenager to whatever the fuck he is now, through torture and violation and mental breakdown after mental breakdown until he tore himself up enough that he could convince himself he could weather it. his messy handwriting is scrawled all through it - notes about what he'd read, about the facility. a map drawn over one of the pages. something like diary entries in the spaces and margins. a list of names of doctors, lab techs and guards, and their sins scrawled next to them. so he could remember what they'd done to him and how painful he should make their deaths. some scratched out, some with ever growing lists he'd never been able to get to. dates, birthdays, a list of KN2s and the number of iterations they've had, that he knows of. which ones they are now. memories from home, when they started to fade. his dad's name, his sister's name, their address, the people he used to know, the places he used to go. trying so hard to hold onto that dream of a life he'd had once. a page that's only the serial code "ANPR-BT-V-00" written over and over and over again, overlapping all the text and photos on the page, covering it completely. ]
Steve... [ he says finally - voice careful, as a hand smooths over a page. the issue is that this book is here. that steve has it. that nothing from his world should be here and he'd been relaxed into the knowledge that this ship couldn't possibly be linked to home. that nick and steve and bucky were pure coincidence. and yet, his book is here. and steve has it. ]
Where the fuck'd you get this?
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He doesn't think that's fair.
And yet, here he is sort of hesitating when he walks into his room and finds Andyr there, wondering if he should be alone with him like this. It's not as if they haven't been alone together since that night - or had it been months? - behind the waterfall, and Steve feels something sort of twist in his chest when he thinks about leaving him. Hadn't his first promise to him been about not hurting him? Whether it's physically or emotionally, it didn't matter. He just tries to swallow it and steps closer as if approaching a skittish creature he's worried would flee if he moved too fast. Whatever he says probably isn't going to help him forget how many nights he'd stayed up looking at those pages, reading the printed text and the handwritten scrawl, how he'd memorized some of the more important details of names and numbers, and how he'd never forget them. Steve doesn't know when he'd realized it'd been Andyr's book delivered to him by mistake, but he'd known. Somehow, he'd known, and he feels embarrassed that Andyr had caught him with it before he could return it to him. ]
It was in the mailbox outside the door. [ His answer is soft, stopping a few inches short of where he sits and so out of his depth that it's not so difficult to read in his body language. ] My name was on it. [ Speaking is a chore, and his teeth worry at his lip for a second or two before: ] Things can come through the Ingress like the people here. I would have given it to you.
[ As soon as he'd finished reading it for at least the fifth time. ]
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[ another sharp snap, thick with suspicion, but his eyes finally lift to Steve, sees him looking ready to shake apart, and maybe he's grown too soft on this ship, but all of it bleeds out of him. he's being a hypocrite, he knows that. on his first day here, he dug through all of steve's stuff. the only reason he found this book at all was because he was snooping through steve's room. swallowing back against the emotion rising in him, andyr casts his eyes back down to the book in his lap, feeling ashamed. ]
Sorry.
[ a murmur, a dull fingernail scraping at the edge of the hard cover, the spot already worn down from the exact same nervous tick - six years worth of it. it's definitely his book. for a moment, he turns the pages, looking back over his scrawling, remembering some of what's written, mind blanking on others. his memory gets so spotty these days. ] You know, it's stupid, but this thing is all that keeps me sane some days. This stupid, old book.
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I'm sorry too. [ A frown pulls at his mouth. ] I should have given it to you when I found it in there.
[ But he'd been too curious for his own good, had wanted to know, and it's not as if Andyr would have ever considered Steve keeping something of his that had belonged to him when he'd been back in that terrible place. Perhaps he'll come to know one day just what it had been like for him, if something like this had ever happened to him to make him react this way, or maybe Steve will continue to make the smallest mistakes and mess up whatever it is that exists between them. Steve sighs, tilting his head to look at him and gauge exactly what he might be feeling. ] But that was then, right? Back home? You've got plenty of things to distract you here, and that's not gonna change as long as you stay. [ He breathes and finally reaches out to slide his hand over Andyr's, a careful touch in an effort to ease the way his nail digs into the book. ] You've got me too, Andyr.
[ Whatever that might be worth now. ]
cw: gore talk
You know I'm going back, Steve. [ quiet, with something weaker than andyr would like it to be in his voice, and he's not sure if he's saying it in response to 'but that was then' or 'you've got me too'. and yet, he isn't letting go of his hand, and hasn't moved his eyes from it. he means more than that, but can't manage to get it past his lips, doesn't know how to form the words for it, where to even start. instead, his eyes slip to the book again, skimming over what he'd written on this particular page. lifting a finger from his free hand, he taps lightly at a crossed out name. ]
This one. He's the one that buckled the straps in, the day they were putting third degree burns and acid on my skin, to see how fast I'd heal. [ andyr swallows, knowing it isn't just self-defense he does. it isn't justice either. it's beyond revenge - it's sick. it's sick, and god, he doesn't fucking care. ] So, next time he had guard detail, I waited 'til we were close to the mess hall, slipped my cuffs, dragged him into the kitchen, and put his face on a lit up burner. Held him there 'til he stopped moving.
[ he speaks in a distant sort of tone, unaffected. not cold, not heated, not anything. just blank, and moves to tap another name - female. ] This one was a lab tech. Put a syringe into my eye once, who fucking knows why. I cut her eyes out with a scalpel - both of 'em, lids and all. Not sure if she actually died or not - someone knocked me out before I could finish. Either way, she's not working in the labs anymore.
[ he's not sure what he means by telling him this. maybe that steve doesn't understand the depth of it. that andyr can't stop carrying it with him, no matter how far away he is for how long. that maybe he doesn't want to stop. that maybe this is all he clings to anymore, and the book illustrates that - more than half what's written in here in some way related to his crusade. ] This one... said something I didn't like. I ripped the lower half of his jaw off.
more like sad talk
That sort of helplessness doesn't sit well in him, makes him nauseous, and his fingers are curling over Andyr's almost possessively with each word. Finality, a memory. He's squeezing his hand so hard by the time he's done that he has to put conscious effort into not breaking his fingers. In a way, Steve blames himself for those stories, those people and what they'd done, and there's no possible way he could have ever known or ever put a stop to it.
Maybe that's the worst part. ]
Hey. [ His voice is thick with all the emotion he feels gathering in his chest, reaching out with his other hand to slowly pull the book from his lap. ] Wherever we end up, it's important to remember that's our choice. What they did to you - [ And his lips press thin, gaze narrowed on the slow tug of those heavy pages like he's trying to find a way to piece together Andyr's heart. ] - that was theirs, and they paid for it.
I mean, it probably wasn't the best way to handle it, but you did what you had to do. [ Something in his voice catches then as the book hits the floor, stuck between a soft teasing and the burn at the back of his throat that says I get it. How much blood is on his own hands anyway? The things he's done and the people who have suffered because of it— sometimes, doing the best thing isn't always the easiest, and even if there's hardly any comparison to what Andyr has suffered, it's not so difficult to imagine anymore. ] All of us do what we have to, even if it means giving up a little bit of ourselves along the way. But you have to think about what you've got here too. You've got friends. You've got-- [ Alva. As if Steve really understands what that means, so he doesn't let himself say it. ]
You have a lot of good choices here. Sometimes, it's not so bad living in the moment.
[ His mouth quirks at the corner, a sad smile that eases into something far too soft when he finally tilts his head up to look at Andyr. There's more he could say, probably. He knows about clinging to a past that he can never escape, one that continues to haunt him and always would, and even if it had been a better time, the world moves on. The universe moves on, and all they can do is-- ] We just have to make the best of it while we can.
w/e w/e fite him
he watches the book slip from his lap with a cold kind of curiosity, watching steve's hand at the edge of the pages and remembering how it'd felt on his bare skin. how much of that had been anything real? andyr watches it slide from his lap and hit the floor, steve's words ringing in his ears - choice, doing what you have to do, and losing a little bit of ourselves. a little bit, and a jerk of a rueful smile pulls the corner of his lips up. a little bit. the person he is now is unrecognizable from the person he used to be. for better or worse, so much of him is simply gone now, replaced with things tht don't fit, that can't understand the world the same as he did before, that can't look at people and see anything but what harm they could be, given the chance. so startled by anything gentle he hardly knows how to handle it, and that brings his eyes slipping back to the hand covering his, and how andyr's yet to let go, thumb still resting over the side of steve's palm. so curious a thing. ]
That what you're doing? [ he asks, finally, lifting his eyes to steve's, and immediately finding himself distracted with the earnestness in his eyes, written all over his face. like he's desperate to do something, and it hinges on andyr well-being to give him some validation in it. ] Living in the moment.
[ there's a sort of daze around him, andyr's eyes searching steve's features - the rise of his cheekbones, the shape of his eyes, the curve of his lips, and the memory of where all those lips have been. he'd told him, once, when they had this conversation before, that there's things here that he'd lost back home. that he'll have to lose them again when they leave. and yet, he still stands tall and strong, yet stoic. the island had been the most free with himself andyr's ever seen the man. all that they'd let go of there, and yet, here they are, afraid to so much as breathe a word of it, worse for what they've known and can't have back. ]
Think we tried that already. [ a quiet, almost imperceptible whisper. barely there, and that's as much as it'll ever be, coming from andyr. ]
just cries about it instead
His eyes fall to Andyr's mouth before he forces them up again. ] For the first time in my life, I think I'm finally starting to live for myself. [ Even if it's still about others, he's slowly beginning to figure out what makes him happy, what makes it easy to get out of bed every day and follow the same routine over and over again, and it hadn't been a simple conclusion. It's years of loss and depression, nightmares and blame, and Steve is no saint. He could never ask what Andyr sees in him. He could never ask anyone to explain it. ] And what happened between us... It's not just a moment for me.
[ It could have been, he thinks. The heat of it and the knowledge of it some fleeting dream like the rest of the ship and everyone else on it. It could have been a memory forgotten with time, the familiar faces that still surface in the dark when he thinks he's asleep, but he's clinging to it far harder than he'd realized. He doesn't want to let it go unless it's something Andyr wants him to do, and even then, he doesn't know if he could do it. ]
I think about it a lot more than I should, and I just-- I don't know. I've never done this before. [ Andy should know exactly what he means, though Steve couldn't elaborate any further even if he wanted to. It's embarrassing and wistful and real. He'd never felt so torn either, biting at his lip and staring at their hands and how easy it would be to push their fingers together or stand and pull him into a testing sort of embrace, something that would show him that he isn't alone and that he wouldn't have to be ever again. He's frowning, and Steve bows his head a little, the words slipping out of his mouth before he can swallow them down. ] I'm sorry.
[ Maybe he's just making too much out of nothing by bringing it up. ]
cries with u tbh
Hey. Stop being sorry. [ a moment of quiet, and andyr glances down to the hand he'd just put on steve, blinking, before easing it back some, to just rest on his leg, a bit higher up that steve's palm is. ] You're not doing anything wrong.
[ there was a certain freedom in not having to justify himself, what he did or said or thought. not having to adhere to what was right or what was wrong, what would hurt people or what would hurt him. what was good for him or his health or his mental state was irrelevant - because no one fucking cared, and the people who might, didn't get a say in it. he didn't have to be logical or rational or make sense, because no one gave a shit what he was - just the template that's mentally cracked, but still profitable. any now, there's this. talks about living in the moment, and what a tangling of bodies means to him, and god, the last time he ever assigned meaning to it, or even spoke about it or acknowledged it past quick trysts in dark corners and hallway closets, was ages ago for him. his mind is all steel edges, shattered glass and violence, and everything on this ship is asking it to be human flesh again. ]
It-- I don't know. [ he starts, careful and with clear difficulty, like starting up a machine that's been collecting dust for ages. tentatively, his hand on his leg inches forward some, just barely gripping at the end of one of steve's fingertips ] I don't know what it was, for me.
[ Had it gone so far because of simple attraction and hormonal desire, had it been because he'd felt wanted and cared for and Andyr's starving for both of those, had it been because it was Steve wanting him, and even then, had it been simply because Steve is special to him, or because he's more. It'd taken Andyr six years to even start to admit that his feelings for Alva were more than friendly affection, and even still, it's twisted all up in what the man represents to him, what support he's been, and what Andyr envies or admires of him. Steve he's known for all of a few months, and he hardly understands who or what he is, let alone what he is to him. He's still such a quandary to him, and it's been a long time since Andyr was willing to take time on anything more complicated than 'kill' or 'ignore'. ]
You're different, and... it felt good. Really good. [ He doesn't mean for the fact they got off (though that was nice too), and Steve ought to know that in how his head ducks, and his lips press together, hand tugging a bit at steve's fingertip, before he shakes his head. ] That's all I know.
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Because before that, before the moment in question and all the thoughts it stirs in him, he wants to believe they're friends. Friends are honest and always there, what he's tried to be for Andyr since they'd met, and he can't lose that when it's sitting right in front of him and reaching out to him. He'd only had one real love in his life, besides Bucky, now that hea given thought to that too, and it had been far too late to do something about it when he'd realized, when he'd known. Steve's older now, more aware of his feelings and what they could mean, why it's like reaching into his chest and ripping his heart into pieces. He feels too strongly, too stubbornly, and if they can't reach some common ground, it's going to tear at his seams until he bursts apart with it. That's why returns the touch, mimicking the way he's gently pulling at Andyr's finger by doing the same to his, and he hesitates there, ignoring the book when he bumps it with his knee and edges it further beneath the chair Andyr's sitting in. ]
It's okay. [ He says it carefully, almost tentative. ] You don't have to know any of that now. Maybe we'll never figure it out, but I don't wanna give up trying. [ What would they have from each other if they did? He can't lie to him and say he doesn't think about it when he's already said as much, when he finds the quiet hours of the night filled with Andyr's smile or the stories he's told him or the written words he'd read with all the fish facts, and he's so full with it that it feels... It feels likes it's almost too much.
And he'll run or shut down before it overloads him, which is why he's drawing back to push himself onto his feet and why the hand resting beneath Andyr's is gently resting against his shoulder before sliding to touch his hair. An easy pressure, comforting and safe. Steve finds himself wanting to trace the line of his jaw with his thumb, and that certainly can't just be some lingering effects of that island. ] If that's something you want to do with me.
[ He doesn't know what he's saying or what it sounds like, but it's out between them without hesitation, a pull to get Andyr to look at him. His finger brushes at the edge of his ear. ] You don't have to answer that right now.
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this is living, this is what he'd been missing and wanting to remember for years. wanting to just feel a glimmer of again, and yet, now that there's the chance, christ, he's fucking terrified of it.
andyr knows what he's like. he'd sacrifice any person in his path if it meant getting just a little closer to that end goal - whatever it is now. freedom he hardly really hopes for anymore (his best kept secret), perhaps revenge? maybe oblivion? whatever wayward whim happens to be the elixir he's surviving on for the moment (and being out of hapsburg, here, doesn't seem to have lessened that need of something to keep him going), like hopping from one stepping stone to the next, trying to make your way across a pond. it sickens him that he might actually be anything but beyond pleased to be free, but the calm in this place drives him more mad than his cell did some days, he thinks, and the thought of putting steve in the way of that fills him with dread. the thought that he might do it without even meaning to - that he already has, three times now, before. ]
I can't promise anything. [ andyr answers, eventually, voice a small croak as he looking up to Steve, mind feeling lulled and sluggish with the careful touch to his hair, wanting to sink into it. stop that, he's trying to think. reaching up, andyr grips steve's thumb, and tugs his hand down, turning it palm up to rest in the cradle of his hands, a thumb tracing one of the lines. ] I could be gone tomorrow.
[ he means that in so many more ways that just 'i'll no longer be here and you'll be on your own'. he knows he's going back, he's told steve already that he can't afford to become comfortable with a life as easy as this, and be dropped right back into the hell of hapsburg to be completely blindsided and unprepared by it. he can't change things about himself - he doesn't even know how to. and steve knows just what world he's returning to, and he'll have to be settled with not following him, should the Ingress simply snatch him away overnight. ]
It'll hurt. No matter what way it goes. [ because Andyr doesn't understand how to do this, because Andyr already knows he won't make allowances for Steve in what cruelty and coldness he already carries in him. Because one day, they'll be gone, one way or another. Because everything Andyr's ever had close to his heart has been ripped away, and even if he has the choice to keep Steve, whether as a dear friend or something more, it will always be second to what he has to do back home. Who he has to be to do it.
and yet, none of this is 'no'. because god, as much as he knows it'll ruin him, ruin steve, ruin everything, he's too fucking selfish, and too goddamn weak, to just cut it off. ]
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I know. [ His voice is surprisingly even with those few syllables. He should stop this right now because false hope, no matter how fleeting, is the worst way to hurt a person, and that would destroy the very first thing he'd ever told him. It would destroy them. ] I'd never ask you for anything like that, Andyr, and I wasn't expecting a promise. Thinking about is enough. [ For now, at least.
Steve still has to do that too, but at least he knows it isn't something he's going to ignore like everything else he's been avoiding. And he gives him a smile then, something fond and gentle and short-lived. This is a choice he's making, and Steve will live with whatever consequences come from that, if they're separated by the pull of time and space or something far more terrible. That someone like this could exist in a place without him is a strange thought to entertain, does something even worse to his heart the longer he considers it, and Steve looks away from him. He watches the pages of that book and can't stand the cold apprehension that comes with it, with knowing he would go back to such an existence and memories of something better. ]
If you want the book, you can take it. [ Said after several seconds of silence, though he doesn't offer another smile like he normally would. Nothing is happy about that, about the outcome that waits for them wherever the end might be. The moment is set, but the future isn't. He isn't sure he can give that up when the time comes. ] Or I can keep it for you.
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Okay. [ it's small, and uncertain, and though it's not actually agreeing to much, it feels like more. this is a bad idea, he keeps chanting in the back of his head. he'll hate himself for this later, he thinks. but he's wanted so long to just be able to feel something again. to laugh, to smile, to connect to someone. to want and feel wanted - something more than just this sick urge to rend and destroy. just to know he still can - that he didn't completely burn that out of himself. that hapsburg didn't. andyr takes a shaky breath, and eventually nods, swallowing around the lump in his throat. ] Yeah. Okay.
[ his eyes glance down towards the book at his feet, andyr staring for a moment, before his hands pull from steve's to reach for it. standing slowly, he turns through the pages, not really reading anything, just looking it over, considering, before he closes the cover, and traces his fingertips over the embossed lettering, a frown on his lips. ]
You hold onto it. I already know everything in it, and besides, I gotta read all the alien fish books now, so. [ Gently, he pushes the old, cracked and frayed book against steve's chest, like it's something delicate he's apprehensively entrusting him with. And really, it is. If nothing else or no one else could give an accurate picture of the shredded mess of a being he is now, that book, and all that's scrawled into the pages, is it. He's not sure what he's wanting from Steve having it - whether he wants to be understood, or he wants it to sink in that Andyr isn't a good person, and he should be running. But either way, there it is. The archive of the slow and violent crumbling of Andyr Prince. ] 'Til I need it again.
[ until he has to go home. ]
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I'll take care of it. [ His smile is wider now, less weighted and more carefree, and there's a slight pause before he's stepping back in the direction of his dresser. ] Hang on. [ Steve sets the book atop it, pulling one of the drawers open to take out the sketchbook Andyr's probably more than familiar with by now. He flips it open and gently tugs out a page, placing the pad atop Andyr's fish book before walking over to him. ] I was gonna give this to you later, but since you're here... Kingfish.
[ More like a king mackerel, but details. At least the shape of the fish is accurate. If he ignores the crown sitting a bit crookedly on its head. The sketch is a bit lighter than some of the others Steve has given him, less finalized like he'd been in the process of finishing it. ] I get bored reading about 'em sometimes. [ Like he has to explain the drawing, though there's nothing that says why they're always of fish or why he gives them to Andyr.
That much should be obvious. ]
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Aw sweet, King Mackerel! [ Steve’s done a good enough job that Andyr can tell what it is, not to mention ‘Kingfish’ being the unofficial name of the fish there, pretty sure his book had detailed that as well. The crown is perfectly appropriate, and a grin pulls across Andyr’s face - the first he’s worn since this talk started. ] High Lord of the the Gulf and most of the Atlantic.
[ Lightly, his fingertips trace the lines fondly, before glancing back up to steve. ]
Thanks. [ said quietly, but sincere. He loves getting these from him, but he’ll likely never say just how much. ] What’s his name, though? He can’t just be ‘King’.
go the fuck 2 sleep, andyr
Maybe.
Probably.
Mostly because Val has managed to coerce Andyr to ease up on the hysterics for now, though he's justifiable, perhaps, in his frantically colliding trains of thought. Val is fairly sure he wouldn't know what to do, all kinds of images of himself running about as they do for Andyr and Alva themselves. And it isn't just that.
It's the notion of this place, pulling here and there as it sees fit, no regard for much else in the way of time and memory and people and the fact that looking at an image of yourself that isn't at all like yourself...
It doesn't something to people like Andyr. Too many things.
The beds in their rooms swing, so Val takes advantage of this, of the slow sway of the bed against the hum of the ship and the dim lighting. How they get there is a combination of Valarie feigning exhaustion and the quiet of the ship indicating that most have begun to turn in for the "night", the furious pleas he makes with their hands tightly fastened together as he begins to pull him towards their deck, but not towards Andyr's own room, nor towards the Aquarium with it's hard floor and tent. A bed will do. A real bed, Andyr, not some half-way nest for vagrants that are obsessed with fish (maybe another night).
He's yet to return Andyr's stupid pull over (and he has no intention of it unless Andyr makes a big stink about it. The bed itself is a nest as well--blankets and pillows, books and more books and it's a wonder that Val doesn't end up stabbed in all kinds of places or covered in a plethora of paper cuts. He moves thinks around, makes room, tidies in a way he's not sure he quite remembers how with a private sort of glee until he's made a decent-sized Andyr-shaped space on the other side of his bed before clambering on himself.
The world is definitely ending, but he wouldn't know, he's not on their world anymore, neither of them is. But it's coming to some kind of a head, some kind of a truce, where Andyr after much more coaxing, lays down, body still tense as a piano wire pulled tight and Valarie is half afraid to rest fingers on him, lest he let out some kind of cacophonous noise like a piano crashed about on with clumsy fists. Never the less, his fingers rest with caution in the tousled mess of his hair, a pillow resting against the glass of his breast as he flicks through a book he's plucked up from the ground.
Valarie loses track of the seconds, the minutes, of blessed quiet, of shifting and huffing about, of the dim corners of the room creeping in until finally he gives a gentle prod to Andyr's cheek, hardly thinking anything of the notion of the act.
Maybe he can bore him to sleep with what he's reading or something. ]
Wanna hear a poem?
just imagined val voiced by samuel l jackson tbh
it's been about seventy-nine and andyr could swear he just saw the ceiling tiles ripple.
this is bad - he knows this is bad and he knows everyone who's been able to keep enough tabs on him to tell he hasn't actually slept since the whole second bucky incident knows this is bad. (how many, actually, would that be? alva? val? was nick watching him? can cassie see it? where's rogers been and why hasn't he spotted him around as much as he has? bucky v1 too? christ)
he needs to get some goddamn sleep, but he thinks, even if he wanted to (which he doesn't - how's he supposed to figure out anything if all he has to do is go unconscious for an hour for someone to extract what's needed from him - or even two minutes, for someone to get close enough for a sedative), any time his eyelids start to get heavy, he feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle, the chill of the ports grotesquely fused to his body, phantom eyes of security cameras and the hum of machinery in the walls. fear screams through him like some kind of unholy spirit's wail, and he's wide awake again.
lying down was a bad idea, but val wouldn't stop pestering. he and alva brought him here, it's andyr's responsibility to be looking after him, especially now, when it feels like everything's closing in, a noose tightening around their throats, but god, he wishes val would just understand that he can't. but his body is so worn, and the bed is so soft, and the hand on his hair reminds him of years ago, memories like a lighthouse swallowed up in fog - quilts on the ratty couch in their tiny living room, chicken noodle soup, and his dad's hand seeming so big when he'd been so young. he swallows, dry, and hears val talking somewhere above him. god, he's so tired. ]
Sure. Whatever. [ do whatever you want, val, he doesn't care. and yet, as his eyes start to fall closed again, and that same screeching fear echos inside his skull, a hand snaps up, grabbing val's thin wrist. ]
Do not fall asleep. Don't leave the room, okay? [ there's something pleading in his voice, desperate. ] Promise me.
voice meme: val is officially voiced by slj
For a flash of a moment, Andyr, who always seems so larger than life, who fills a room with enmity or rage or rambunctiousness... feels so small. Looks so small. It's unnerving, concerning even, and Val makes more the effort to press closer to him, as if maybe there's some sort of safety in that alone. ]
I'm not tired, alright? [ He leans in carefully, almost conspiratorial in how low his voice is. ] You're safe. I'm won't go anywhere... promise.
[ Not always, not forever, it has an ending, just undefined. An hour, a day, a week, who knows. He doesn't pull his wrist back, just lays against the pillows propping him up once more, adjusting the book in his hand. There's a soft mewl that comes from the end of the bed, a weight suddenly pouncing up on the end of it and barely causing the bed itself to stir back and forth. Petra picks her way gently through the sheets and makes herself comfortable somewhere between the two of them. She seems fairly unconcerned with the new addition to the bed.
Val smooths a hand over the page slowly, just as he slowly works his wrist free of Andyr's grip and settles it again, this time on his shoulder. It's the barest touch, enough to tell him he's there, enough to show him that he isn't going anywhere as he reads him a fairly short poem. ] I am the master of my fate, [ he says, fingers squeezing softly over the line of Andyr's shoulder ] I am the captain of my soul.
fjskld A+ fund it
even knowing who and what she is now, all that she's done, something about it always seemed somewhat soothing, as his body gradually healed, aching all over, worn to the bone. he ought to feel sick for idealizing something like that, as if any part of the Houses could've brought any kind of solace, but it's true in a way he's too tired to try denying right now. andyr's hand reaches up for the one over his shoulder, bony fingers slightly winding in Val's, perhaps just for the reminder that he's there. his eyes blink closed, listening to the poem as val reads it, letting the gentle quality of his voice wash over him.
the words ring in his ears, and he sees why val thought he'd like it. he does, despite what feels untrue in comparison to him, to them. it's what he'd like to be, the dream he'd like to hold on to, if he still had the hope in him for it. ]
Master of my fate. [ andyr smiles, soft, words weary and sleepy. ] Nice if it were true, huh?
[ what he's been doing lately, it hasn't been out of defiance. just fear. but the idea's always been more important than the reality, at least as far as andyr's been concerned. it doesn't matter what he actually believes - just that val and posie and mikal and alva see him doing it, see him acting like he believes it. something about the poem brings a peace to him, in that thought, and he curls up, settling into the next of blankets and pillows. ]
I like it.
this gonna be like that always sunny ep where they hide an entire pizza in the air vents
Badou Nails!
He's smoking about 30 feet ahead, peeking through one of the grates below you into a scene....well, you'd only know if you get a little closer. Shall you?]
omfg amazing
Pissy vent lord of the moira, because he’s following that scent of cigarette smoke, and when he turns a corner to spot the carrot topped weirdo clogging up his ventilation systems with lung cancer, he shouts out, unconcerned with who do may or may not disturb on the other end of the grates. ]
Hey, douche! Don’t smoke in the fucking vents! What are you, stupid?
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but as Andyr comes sprinting-- vaulting? after him, yelling, he's not sure this isn't a rat.
Badou SCREECHES INTO THE HEAVENS]
GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME, XENODICK!!! I DON'T WANT YOUR CHEST BABIES!
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who cares, he's probably high as balls. ]
THEN GET THE FUCK OUTTA MY VENTS, ASSHAT! IT'S ONLY ALIEN JUNK AND MPREG UP HERE. [ which actually seems like a good slogan to keep people out of here, maybe he'll post it up somewhere. ]
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[he's not gonna take this sitting own
but you know running]
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[ whoever is in the hallways below whatever vent tunnels they're crawling/vaulting/running/scrambling through is going to be having a very strange day. but fuck them, they should mind their own business, this is official moira sanitation shit right here.
and andyr's throwing a dirty dust rag at carrot top up ahead. because it just seems like the considerate thing to do. ]
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[with another squawk he grabs the rag off his head and tosses it somewhere behind him, no, not aiming for Andyr here-- that'll come in the form of whatever junk he can get ahold of in their path.
Has anyone been cleaning up here? What is happening]
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PUT YOUR DICK ANYWHERE NEAR MY HANDS AND IT'S GETTING CAUGHT OFF, DUMBSHIT!
[ vaulting off the wall of the last corner they'd rounded, andyr stretches out a hand and reaches to grab at one of badou's ankles, hoping to snag this weirdo invader. ]
The fuck are you even doing up here?
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well its more than Badou has been doing, which is get cigarette ash everywhere.
He definitely snags his uniform cuff and down, down, down he goes, howling like a banshee--]
EAT THREE DICKS AND KEEP THE DOCTOR AWAY, FUCK OFF! It's none of your business!
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Like reeling in someone with a rope, he’s dragging badou back towards him, strength enhanced from most humans, so he’s expecting that to be fairly easy. What he’s doing with him once he gets a proper hold on him, he’s not sure, but it’ll eventually involved being punted the fuck out of the vents. ]
That doesn’t even make sense. [ why would you eat dicks to keep doctors away?? Literally has nothing to do with why doctors creep on you. ]
And it is my business, because these are my fucking vents, dipshit. I work here.
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I WORK HERE! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?! WHERE'S YOUR ID? I DEMAND TO TALK TO-- TO A SPACE LAWYER! I guess!
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Well, you're fired! You don't get lawyers in space, just airlocked.
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[wiggling, he struggles to break out of Andyr's grip, sniffling]
I'm kinda glad, lawyers are dickholes.
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[ struggle struggle, he's a meta-human, bro, you ain't going nowhere until he loosens up his grip. ]
We got that to agree on, at least. Did they seriously assign you to work in the vents? [ please say you're just being full of shit, please. you're in his safe space, badou. ]
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[he just
will continue until he gets tired how about that. then he'll go limp. until some more energy comes and and he wiggles again]
Yes, they seriously did. What are you, the boarder police? I don't got my papers.
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Yes. I am. You can't be in here without authorization, come back when you've had the captains give you your papers.
[ which would at least get this weirdo out of his face for a few hours. ]
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